ing the Cork school days of our childhood

Well, we got a great response to Tom (Brian) Cronin’s memories of one fateful Good Friday night on the Lower Road, published last week.

Just to clear things up, since there have been a few queries, our Mr Cronin was christened Tom, but at the age of 17, when he was applying to be accepted by the Shannon School of Hotel Management, they told him they already had a Tom Cronin on the course, and he would have to change his name, to avoid confusion.

“At that stage, I would have changed my religion if they’d asked me, to get on to that course, so I became Brian, and that’s what I’ve remained ever since,” he explained.

My brother Tommy knew him as Tom, of course, since our house on Summerhill had a second exit across a bridge and down a great flight of stone steps to the Lower Road, just opposite the station.

“Oh yes, I Tom Cronin well,” said Tommy. “And on the Good Friday pub thing - I know there was a garage in this certain city street - no names, no pack drill - run by a friend of mine. And over that garage there was a room which was known as the ‘Good Friday Club’.

Everyone in on the secret would slip up there on the day itself, and they would have the supplies laid in for a good session.

“But on one Good Friday, the Union Quay gardaí planned a big raid on it. This other friend of mine, a cop, knew about the planned raid of course, but he also knew the place, and rang them to warn them. Unfortunately, his call was overheard and he was severely demoted, put back down the ranks.”

Drummer Joe Mac, a central character in our article last week, has mentioned another way of getting that longed-for drink on Good Friday in days gone by,

“There was a trick you could try, by buying a platform ticket for the station and getting on to the platform,” said Joe. “The bar was open there for bona fide travellers, so you were OK as long as nobody asked to see your ticket.

“But it’s as well we didn’t try it that night you mentioned last week, since the cops were in hiding there that night!”

Joe Mac tells us that his dad, John McCarthy, was a stonecutter by trade. “Sure, he was in the same place as Seamus Murphy, and it was the two of them worked on that fine coat of arms over the Custom House - you know the one?”

We do indeed, Joe, and more power to your dad’s elbow and skill!

“I your own dad well,” Joe Mac told me. “Taught me in the Tech, he did. I met him many years later and reminded him of that. ‘And how did you get on in life?’ he demanded. I told him well enough, that I was in the entertainment business. Not sure he regarded that as a great success, but I don’t suppose he ever went to hear The Dixies!

“An adventurer, definitely an eccentric, a great man though,” Joe said of my father, Joey.

Now look at the date we’ve got to! The end of August, and back to school is on the horizon, if not already a fact.

How did you feel about that nemesis approaching as the golden days of the summer holidays came to a close? Did you look forward to new excitements, or look back with longing? Do tell us what you most about the new scholastic year.

“I always resented the big strident ‘Back to School’ signs in shop windows,” notes Katie O’Brien. “They seemed to positively glory in the awful fact, pushing their uniforms and shoes and pens and pencils and schoolbags, and all that paraphernalia of control.

Mind you, they only started doing that in mid-August. These days the kids seem hardly to have got out the school gate before the shops have their ‘Back to School’ notices up, and the piles of copybooks on the counter!

Stephen Twohig says it is odd the things you do : “Whenever I think back on early schooldays, I think about the shouts and callings at lunch and break time, and the quiet of the vacant yard after. The smells of sandwiches and flasks of soup or hot chocolate, old floorboards with horse nails worn, creaking radiators, the wax of our desks, the chanting mantra and chorus of prayers or recitals and the roll call read. ‘Stiofan O Tuathaigh ... Anseo…’

Stephen adds: “Inside the door were ‘the jacks’ and next to that the mayhem of the cloakroom. It was like the exits after a county final trying to grab your duffel coat.

“Along the wall was the customary Poblacht na hEireann, or Irish Declaration of Independence. This was usually in close proximity to our national heroes, Padraig Pearse, Thomas McDonagh, James Connolly, or Plunkett and Larkin.

“The corridors were noisy places, but when class was in progress and you were on the way to the ‘leithreas’, or taking a note to another teacher, they were eerily quiet. Inside, you could hear the muffled recital of poems or prayers and you scooted along the shiny marble corridor as fast as your little legs would carry you. 

Outside some door would be a bored and languid offender who had been sent to stand outside in punishment. Inside class there were shelves along the walls lined with books. 

"Always the map of Ireland, as certain as the crucifix or Sacred Heart in any living room. With other maps of Europe or the world would be posters of local areas or some recent class projects.

“On the teacher’s large pine desk were stacks of copybooks and on the chalky blackboard the lesson of the day.

“If it was autumn, there would be a shrine to the season with leaves, branches, horse chestnuts, pheasant tails and various acorns and nuts with the golden colours of the fall of the year.

“Who will not forget, or have nightmares, over the black velvet buntus board? Cut-out cardboard figures with pieces of sandpaper stuck to the back would be placed on the board as the story progressed and you were led through the riveting story of Daddy and Mammy and the exploits of the Leanai with a little imagination. Well, quite a lot of imagination actually!

“This primitive Punch and Judy show and early black screen of the ‘buntus’ saga is now, I suppose, replaced by Power Point and video.”

Stephen continues: “Your school desk - like the lines on your hand you knew its scrapes, lines, carvings, and the veins of previous generations. It became yours for the whole year, inherited from some other boy who would have spent hours daydreaming and sometimes learning there.

In early classes, some would polish them with a greasy wax and yellow cloth. Underneath were the initials of the long lineage of previous occupants. Sometimes you would recognise one.

“Inside, you would hoard all sorts of pencils, biros, markers and conkers. On the top corner were little inkwells from a previous generation. The little brass doors would slide back and forth and in times past there had been a little porcelain cup to contain the ink.

“You would sit in the worn desks, stare at the large sweet jar with the tadpoles swimming in it. You’d watch their little legs sprouted and wonder at the metamorphic change in progress. Yours would be slower, but not by much.

“By the tall windows were tall, blocky heaters that you would sit on or lean against in winter, or upon which the teacher leaned during class.

“There was a tall pole with a hook on it and if you were lucky enough to be seated by the window you would be asked to open it and air out the stuffy afternoon class. Or you would stare out at the empty yard, the swallows making spring nests under the roof awnings and the pigeons swooping by.

“It’s amazing we never hurt ourselves dragging those heavy bags and satchels to school. They weighed a ton. Santa carried less on Christmas Eve. Every day we lugged it up the hill to school. Luckily, we were only a stone’s throw away.

“Inside the bag was an array of copybooks and lesson books. The copies were the same wallpaper as whatever room had been refurbished last at home. Most had Celtic designs or cultural landmarks on the cover. It was crisp and smelled so new when first opened, but soon would be as shaggy and worn as the sheep dog at home. With ears to match.

There was always the metal pencil case that had once been purchased at Scullys as a set with com, dividers, protractor and ruler. These had been lost or discarded and the little rectangular box remained as your pencil case. On it was scraped your name or initials.

Stephen’s memories continue in the same vivid vein.

“Your lesson books were always entertaining, not so much for the content but for the hidden notes and drawings in the sidelines. They invariably had started life with Michael, then Gerald, and then been handed down to Rose, James, then us. These tattered old relics might even have made it to Sheilanne or Tricia.

“They were rich in colour and content and the etchings and doodling on the margins were like those of an inmate on his walls.

“When you got the book from James, there were more Indians on it than some reservations in Montana. Cowboys and Indians appeared with arrows flying in all directions, over Swift, Wordsworth and the Battles of Hastings, Britain and Kinsale.

“Every letter on the cover had been filled in with ink and every page you turned could have a World War I tank or a flying biplane. It’s a wonder James heard anything in class with all the drawings and daydreaming he did. I suppose he never got caught, as it seemed he was working away, whereas I was the one always caught looking out the window.”

(We should interject here that this was in those sensible times when a schoolbook was deemed to contain enough practical information as it was, and could therefore be handed down from one child to another, unlike the current disgraceful practice of issuing a new edition every year, which must be bought by today’s pupil, despite there being 17 earlier editions in the house already.)

But back to Stephen’s memories: “The clock ticked slowly towards three and soon you would be racing home and casting with Dad on the Blackwater. Or huddled in by the pond under the whitethorn bushes waiting for the hiss of fast-beating duck wings. You thought three o’clock would never come, but it always did.

“We would luckily skip Gus and Una’s two-room school in Bluepool. Instead we would become the first class of boys to go all the way through the Secondary. This would be a blessing for us by all s as we had heard some exciting and incredulous stories from there from our cousins Michael and James. Most of all, we were saved the horror of learning Latin.

“This next level in our education was a new experience for all of us, moving on to make new friends. and especially having girls in our class at this growing and changing age. Say no more!

It was a big transition to this next level. We would now have different teachers for each subject and there was something new and exciting in all the new subjects and surroundings.

“For two years, we would occupy and make home in the new pre-fab buildings up near the tennis courts annexe, and far away from the rest of the school.

“We would live on our own little island for a short while before we again moved onwards and upwards. Like the little tadpoles in the sweet jar, sprouting our new limbs in a growing and changing world.”

What evocative memories, Stephen! Let’s hear from the rest of you. Email [email protected]. Or leave a message on our Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/echolivecork.